


My Lady Amell

by welseykels



Series: Multi-Chapters [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amell Family AU, Cinderella Elements, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-05-14 07:43:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5735419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/welseykels/pseuds/welseykels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the encouragement of Warden-Commander Cousland, Alistair Theirin assumed the Ferelden throne after the end of the Blight.  Feeling the pressure to marry and produce heirs, Alistair allows Arl Eamon to throw a ball for the purpose of finding his Queen.  An AU where Mira Amell was never taken to The Kinloch Hold Circle Tower and remained a noble woman in Kirkwall, the Amell family remaining stronger than ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blighted Politics

**Author's Note:**

> [Check out my writing masterpage on tumblr!](https://welseykels.tumblr.com/writing)

If Alistair had to hear one more Bann proposition him with their daughter’s hand in marriage he was going to resurrect the Archdemon himself and bring back the bloody blight.

He was King, he understood that a queen and heirs were expected.  He did.  It had been burrowed into his brain through countless meetings with Arl Eamon over the course of the one year since he had taken his throne.  Burrowed.  Absolutely burrowed in there.  Maker forbid that the mighty Theirin bloodline end after four ages.  Maker forbid it end with the Bastard King, already a stain on such a noble house.

He still had that silly notion in his mind that he could one day marry for love.  Not that it would be likely that he would be able to now.  But it was a notion he clung to nonetheless.  The last scraps of the Alistair who had wanted to stay some Warden who’d been too lucky to die at Ostagar.  Not that he would have been encouraged to marry as a Warden… or have children…

_But King Alistair Theirin would be expected to do both._

And so he was at Eamon’s mercy, at the mercy of his politics, at the mercy of his country’s need for a continued line of rule - lest another succession crisis occur.  

Eamon and Teagan had dreamt up an idea to find him a bride after several long meetings with him.  They would  invite Southern Thedas’ most eligible noble ladies for a ball.  The ones he - no, the ones that Eamon preferred - would be invited to stay longer, until he choose to officially begin courting one.

Tonight felt more like a parade, each woman dipping in a curtsy before him, drawling out ‘ _your majesty_ ’ as seductively as possible before she was gone once more.  He didn’t get to know any of the ladies, too busy with Eamon and Teagan making sure he met each of of their fathers and mothers, planning alliances should their daughter be chosen for Ferelden.  He didn’t like the schmoozing, he didn’t like the thought of a woman to simply wanting him for his crown, for the power they imagined he held.

_Was it too much to ask that someone like him for him?  To love him simply as Alistair?_

_Blighted politics._ Liam could have helped him navigate them, Maker, he would have been a better choice for a King. He’d grown up in this world, grown up as the second son of a powerful Teryn.  Alistair had grown up in the stables and kennels of Redcliffe, hardly a place to learn to be king.  

_King of the mabaris, maybe._

But instead, Liam had decided that Alistair would be the better choice for Ferelden.  The Maker only knew why.  He was growing to enjoy some aspects of his kingship, that he couldn’t deny.  He loved helping his people, was thrilled by the aspect of helping his homeland heal after such devastation.  But Liam should have been here with him, together they could have done twice as much good.  And where was his blighted best friend when he needed him desperately?

_Oh right, he’d disappeared without a trace… with Morrigan._

William Cousland would certainly be of no help to him now.

He slouched down on the throne, resting his elbow on the arm of the wood and fur monstrosity, and settling his chin upon his fist.  Would Wintersend never end? It seemed only fitting that the holiday dedicated to the corrupted Old God he'd had a hand in defeating was the one plaguing him presently.  In Tevinter, he could have spent the day in the Proving Grounds, participating in a tourney, feeling like the old Alistair. The Alistair whose time wasn't devoured by meetings, audiences, and banquets. The Alistair who could risk bodily harm for a bit of bloody fun.  But no, he had no heir… so he couldn’t spar, couldn’t train, couldn’t fight, couldn’t do anything that Warden Alistair could have done whenever he damn well pleased.

But no, in Southern Thedas it was a day for arranging marriages.  And so Eamon meant to find him a bride.   _Maker help him.  Maker help whichever poor young woman fell into the Arl’s plan._

His eyes drifted round the main hall, seeking anything to pass the time.  He fell back on an old habit that had kept him occupied during his days within the Chantry.  He’d choose one person from the crowd, creating a backstory for them simply from his imagination and any clues he could find on their person.  It amused him for a short while, but eventually each story either became ‘wants to be the Queen’ or ‘want their family to be related to the Queen’.  Tonight was not going well it seemed.

Teagan came to his side shortly after, more than likely catching the way Alistair was glowering and Alistair suspected his adoptive uncle would reprimand him for it sooner rather than later.  But inside the younger Guerrin brother simple stood, watching the crowds with him for a few moments in silence before a grin turned up a side of his lips.  “See anyone to your liking, your Majesty?”

“Does it matter if I do?”

A laugh from the older man.  “Once this portion of the evening is over, you’ll be expected to dance with each of the young ladies, before your decision is made.  Hopefully that will help you, Alistair.”

“How many more families do I have to meet?”

Teagan’s brow furrowed for a moment as he surveyed the crows.  “I believe that there is only one family left.  The pair of brunettes with their backs to us by Arl Bryland, I think that is them.”

A sigh.  “And who are they exactly?”

“Those two… they are from Kirkwall’s Amell family.  Their uncle was Aristide Amell, former Viscount of Kirkwall.  Now it is assumed that the elder of the pair, Gavin, will assume his uncle’s title now that he’s recently passed.  The lady with him is his sister, but I… I cannot recall her name.”

As if he’d heard his own name… which seemed ridiculous given that he was halfway across the main hall, Gavin Amell turned, heading towards the front of the hall where Alistair sat.  He could catch glimpses of the sister, the woman much shorter than her sibling and disappearing often between the clusters of taller nobility.

He was barely able to get a look at them before she was dropping into a curtsy and he into a sweeping bow.  Gavin stood first, a wide grin greeting Alistair.

"May I present my sister, Lady Mira Amell."

She lifted her head from her curtsy, her green eyes finding his.

 _Oh_.


	2. Blasted Dog Lords

Mira certainly didn't like that they had to leave Kirkwall for Ferelden.  Not that Kirkwall was any better presently.  With the tensions rising between the Lords now that her Uncle was dead, the mounting threat of the Qunari, and with the horror stories she and Gavin had been hearing from The Gallows, it was best not to linger there.  Many of Kirkwall had no idea, they only knew with the return of their cousins, the Hawkes, who had ventured near the Gallows themselves.

Maker only knew what would await them if Knight-Commander Meredith decided to make an extended visit at the Amell estate, gauging if Gavin would be the same sort of man as their uncle, one who bowed so easily to her and her beliefs.

She would be sorely disappointed if she did, Gavin was no such man.  

The Lords would not assemble until later in Bloomingtide, several months off, giving Gavin ample time to find backers for his bid for the highest position Kirkwall could offer him, if he was to oppose Meredith.  And that was what had brought them to Ferelden after receiving the invitation to Denerim.  Even if they weren’t expressly interested in finding a marriage bed for Mira, they took the chance they could find with the palace’s open doors, a crown on her head more powerful than none.

Allying with the King of Ferelden, who had begun to give mages the power to govern themselves?  He would be a powerful ally should Gavin continue down the road he was already travelling.  Not only that, but this would more than likely be the largest gathering of dignitaries and nobility outside The Grand Tourney.  The Tourney itself would not fall until after the Lords met to decide the new Viscount, leaving them with this ball as their only option.  This would be their chance to gain as much a following as they could.  Their plans could shape the very face of Southern Thedas if they succeeded.

They had to impress.  Gavin specifically.

Aristide Amell, when he lay near death, had told her that she would be better suited than her elder brother for his high seat, but being the figurehead of Kirkwall politics was not for her.  Even if she had the sense for it, she preferred spending her days away from the nobility she had already spent her life around.

Instead, she spent her days by the docks.  Tending to those who remained stranded outside the city.  She brought what food she could with her, offering that to what refugees she could.  With the stresses of little food, little coin, little shelter, there were inevitably fights that broke out, leaving Mira to offer her services discreetly as a healer as well.  It pained her each day to see these people without a home, without a country that would take them in if they couldn’t pay their way into it.  Her first week down there a year ago had her returning that night and pleading with her uncle to send some sort of aid.  But he’d refused.  And she knew then that Meredith had already spoke of the dangers of the Fereldens on their doorstep, that her uncle was wrapped around her iron-clad finger.

But with Gavin as the Viscount, things could change.

Her cousin, Sofia Hawke, had offered to check on the families she had gotten to know for her while she was in Ferelden, Anders leaving his clinic a day a week to help those at the docks that needed medical aid.  She was grateful for her cousin and friend, feeling a little less troubled about leaving those who depended on her behind, for Maker knew how long she would be gone if things went well.

She could content herself with thoughts of her homeland’s potential brighter future for the time being, otherwise she was going to lose her mind if she had to hear Gavin list of the various exports and holdings their family held once more.  That was torture.  The only thing the noble families in attendance wanted to know was how much they were worth, how much power they held, if they were a threat to their own daughter’s or sister’s or niece’s bid for Queenship.  And so, Gavin was left to repeat the same speech over and over.

Even the King’s advisor, Arl Eamon, had had no time for anyone by Gavin, barely acknowledging her with a nod before the two were discussing how the Amells could benefit their southern neighbours.  Gavin had a silver tongue, that was certain, the Arl seeming content to have met them, pleasant the entire conversation, but he’d moved onto the next grouping all the same, the same predatory smile as he’d had when he greeted them.

If this is what his entourage was like, what would the King himself be like?  She could barely get a glimpse of him where he sat at the far end of the hall.   _ Blasted Dog Lords, why were they all so tall? _

Would King Alistair care about his people who lacked the coin to venture back across the Waking Sea?  Would he care about the horrors occurring to Harrowed mages and apprentices alike under Meredith’s leadership?  Or would he only be worried about what  _ they _ could do for  _ him _ ?  

And then she turned her head to catch him slump on his throne as the crowd parted just enough around her, his chin moving to rest on the hand he had propped on the large chair’s arm.  He was certainly handsome, that she couldn’t deny.  She’d heard that the Hero of Ferelden was more so, but she had a hard time imagining that to be true.  Short ginger hair surrounded his golden crown, furs and richly coloured fabrics adorning his deliciously broad shoulders, and strong masculine facial features that were attractive even if he was scowling at the moment. 

It gave her a little hope, if he was just as disappointed in this gathering as she… perhaps he wasn’t as bad as his advisors afterall.  But that would still remain to be seen.

She smoothed imagined wrinkles on her dress, keeping her hands occupied as Gavin spoke to the next new face that could either help them in the future, or disappear from their lives after this evening, never to be thought of again.  Tonight she was dressed in what her family had taken to calling ‘Amell Red’, the dress fitting snugly on her curves, more snugly than she’d cared.  Sofia had made her bring it with her, had convinced her that this would be the dress that caught attention.  A king’s attention.  Mira didn’t care for it at all, seeing only the lumps and bumps the dress revealed in her looking glass.  Sofia had assured her that she was merely imagining them, but that didn’t stop her from seeing them.  She would be more than happy to not be noticed, was more than comfortable when she wasn’t the centre of things.  

She marveled at the women who were here for the chance of being Queen, who wanted all this attention.  She pitied them somewhat… to want a man simply because of the power he wielded?  She found that though difficult to imagine.  And yet here she was, at the ready to sacrifice love, the freedoms of her life not burdened by the noble court, and perhaps her maidenhead if it came to it, if it meant helping her home and securing a new ally.   

But she highly doubted that she would even turn the King’s head, that he would even bat an eyelash in her direction.  Looking around her at the beautiful women had her worried about her chances of even staying beyond the night to allow their chances to better.  For the invitation had said that only a select few ladies and their families would stay beyond the first night, those who held the most potential of ruling Ferelden at the King’s side.  Maker, she would need a miracle for her to be the chosen one from the hall full of eligible brides.

But then Gavin’s head turned suddenly, a grin forming on his lips as he murmured to her that now was her time.  He politely bid farewell to the man he’d been speaking to, taking Mira’s arm in his own as they made their way across the main hall.

She knew her hands were trembling, the reality that an alliance could end before it even began resting solely on her shoulders.  She could feel the chill that ran through her, before it settled in her fingers.  She knew Gavin could feel the drop in temperature through his dress jacket when he cast a glance at her and whispered, “Meer, not now.  Deep breaths, control it.”  

She followed his instruction, breathing in deeply before releasing it, praying silently to Andraste and the Maker that no one could see the frost on the tips of her fingernails.  With each breath it disappeared more and more, gone completely by the time they reached the front of the hall.

She dropped into a curtsey the moment they stood before him.  Gavin moving into a bow of his own as he released her arm.  She wasn’t prepared to see the disappointment in the King’s eyes just yet.

“May I present my sister, Lady Mira Amell.”

And then she lifted from her curtsy, her head rising as his brown eyes found hers.

_ Oh. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never said she wasn't an apostate. ;)


	3. You Think I’m Beautiful?

“Your Majesty?”

It isn’t the woman this time drawling out his title, but instead it’s Teagan’s voice that filters into his ears, the sound distant compared to the thrumming of Alistair’s heart.  His head had lifted from where it had rested against his hand and his back straightened against the heavy wood of his throne.  It was then that Alistair realized he’d been staring speechless at the woman.  For how long, he didn’t know.  “I - Welcome to Denerim, Lord and Lady Amell.”

_ Maker, but even her smile at his words was pretty. _

“Thank you, your highness.”

It was her brother that spoke, and Alistair couldn’t help but notice that the Lady Amell’s fingers clutched at the man’s dress jacket, fingernails hidden in the creases in the fabric.  He wondered what those fingers would feel like on his own arm, what they would feel like on other places on his body.   _ Maferath’s balls.   _ He’d barely said more than a handful of words to her, know her more barely moments  and immediately he loses all sense.  She was more than likely like all the others -  _ why else would she be here _ ?  He swallowed, hard.  

No one was here for the lonely boy who had grown up in Redcliffe’s stables, they were only here for the man with Maric Theirin’s nose and Ferelden’s crown.

It was another cough from Teagan at his side that had him realizing the chamber musicians in the far corner had stopped playing, waiting for him to speak.  He had finally met all the ladies after all, and Eamon was making his way over to the throne at the head of the room, ready to fill in for him.  Alistair preferred sometimes when his ‘uncle’ would take the lead.

“Lords and Ladies from all across Southern Thedas, we welcome you here to Denerim.  Our King welcomes you.  Now that he has been introduced to each and everyone of your families, the ball will officially begin.” Eamon’s gaze turned over to Alistair and he felt his palms grow sweaty, his face turn hot.  “The King will choose his first dance partner, but don’t fret fair maidens, he will have a chance with you all for one song. Once he’s danced with each of you, we’ll convene privately.  There will be a very select few of you that will receive a sealed letter, providing details of your accommodations here at the palace for the coming weeks while our King chooses his future Queen.”  

Now was his time to choose the first lady he would dance with, all eyes were on him and he felt the press of their gaze fall squarely on his shoulders.  One song with each woman, it couldn’t be that difficult, not that he could do much more than sway slightly along to the music with them.

The musicians began again, thankfully drowning out any fumbling attempts he would make at asking some to dance with him.  He’d never done that before.  It wasn’t like it would be difficult, he just knew he’d make a fool of himself more than likely.  Especially with hundreds of pairs of eyes on him… just when he needed to make himself a fool in front of a woman.

It wasn’t all that difficult of a decision, really, choosing his first dance partner.  He stood from his wooden seat and held out his hand to the woman in red still in front of him, mustering all the poise and grace he had attempted to learn over the past year.  He wanted to know her, know if he was right or wrong about her being just like everyone else.  He hoped she wasn’t.  He didn’t know why.  Maker, they’d just met and yet… he wanted to know her.

“Would you -” His blighted throat needed clearing.  “Would you care for a dance, my Lady?”

He didn’t miss the way her fingers tightened around her brother’s arm.  “Me, your highness?  First?”

“If that’s alright with you.”

It took a moment before he brother urged her on, releasing her arm from his own as Alistair offered out his hand.  He saw her chest heave –  _ not that that had been any particular focus of his before now _ – as her small fingers touched his own.

_ Her hands were freezing cold. _

He had half a mind to take both between his own, they’d fit in there easily, and give her some of the warmth he had.  But the eyes of the entire court were upon them and so instead, he fitted only one of her hands in his own, wrapping his fingers over hers, and led her to the centre of the main hall.

The music began to swell again through the air as they reached where the crowd had parted in a small circle, allowing them room to spin around to the music.  He knew how this would go, had been to several of these balls over the past year, especially in the beginning celebrating his reign. They would have the first few bars to dance alone before other couples would join in.  But he’d never danced himself before at one.

Her face was level with the golden buttons adorning his chest and he raised their held hands upward, positioning themselves to dance.  He swallowed hard as her other hand raised to rest over his heart, his shoulder a little too awkward of a reach to be comfortable during their dance.

He hoped his palms weren't still sweating, he hated the thought of leaving palm prints on her dress as he moved his other hand lower, but then the thought of her hip under his touch made him certain that they hadn't stopped. He flexed his fingers a little against her, marvelling that this was the first time he had ever danced with a woman like this, slow and purposeful.  They were alone at the centre of the room – well as alone as they could be.  She looked up at him, her words barely above a whisper.  “Are all Fereldens this tall, your majesty?”

He laughed, freely for the first time in longer than he could remember, finding that the least thing he would have expected to hear.  “Are all Free Marchers as short as you, my Lady?”

“You hardly have to call me a lady, you are a king after all.”  She joined into his laugher, hers rich and musical to his ears.  “But to answer your question, only myself.  My family is rather tall, like my brother.”

“Oh,  _ right _ .”  

“My cousin, Carver, he’s the tallest of us - he’s about your height really.  He’s recently joined the Grey Wardens.”

He knew his brows shot up.  “A Grey Warden?”  A grin started to pull at his lips.  “You know, I used to be a Grey Warden…”

“I think everyone knows that, your majesty.”

“ _ Right _ . I suppose it’s not much of a secret.  It seems everyone knows more about me than I them.”

“Being king doesn’t exactly lend itself to privacy, especially when one had their hand in ending a Blight.  Which, about the Blight, I wanted to ask about the Fereldens-”

“May I know more about you?”

“What?”  Her lips pursed, and for one moment he was afraid that she would want to end the dance early, before the end of the song.  “You want to know me?”

He knew his voice practically dripped with sarcasm as he spoke and frankly, he thought he’d get a laugh from her. “I think that’s the point of asking you all here.”

_ He was wrong _ .

Her brows furrowed as her lips drew further together. “Well, you don’t have to be an arse about it.”  The hand against his chest clapped against her mouth, her words mumbled against her fingers.  “I’m so sorry, your majesty.  Forgive me.”

He saw the worry on her face, saw the fear that he wouldn’t take kindly to her now.  Instead, he laughed.  “Rightly said.”  He gently took her hand back from her lips, bringing it back to his chest, while keeping his fingers wrapped around her own as he held her against him.   

She looked stricken as he did so, her lips changing to form words and yet none came out.  He was not what she had expected.   _ She was not what he had expected _ .

“But may I know more about you?”

She barely managed to say  _ yes _ , but it had her smile returning ever so slowly to her lips.  “You may, your majesty.”

“Please, call me Alistair.”   _ Was her palm sweating along with his own _ ?  

“Alright… Alistair.  You may.”

He smiled, big and bright.  His hand moved back towards her waist, even if he was loathe to let go of her hand, feeling the muscles and curves of her shift beneath his fingers seemed more inviting at the moment.  He hoped he wasn’t too forward when the gesture pulled her towards him fractionally.

“You’re from Kirkwall?”

She nodded.

“And what made you accept an invitation to tonight?”

She laughed.  “Forward with your questions aren’t you?”  Some of the other dancers were beginning to join in around them.  Thank Andraste, finally they might have some more privacy amongst the swirling skirts and dancers.  She sighed.  “To be completely transparent, we’re here to secure alliances for my brother’s bid to be Viscount now that our uncle is dead and I’d like to talk to you about the Ferelden refugees in my country, or rather outside of it on the docks.  We’d hope to find help, but I’ve been expecting you to tell us no.  But I - I’ve already realized I’ve been thinking wrong of you so far.”

“How so?”

“You’re - you’re kinder so far than I had expected.” 

The smile still hadn’t disappeared of his lips.  “I shall take that as a compliment, my Lady.”

“Mira.” She swallowed and he saw the muscles of her neck move as she did so.  He had the absurd though to press his lips there, if merely to calm the movements. “You can call me Mira.”

He gripped her hand a little tighter after that, not caring anymore if it was clammy against hers.  In fact, he found her touch a little on the colder side.  Maker, he didn’t think he’d ever felt fingers so cold. 

_ Was she nervous? Did fingers do that? _

“And what of your brother then, he wants to be Viscount, is he married or have heirs for the family?”

“No, but he is taken, despite what anyone else will tell you.”

“Oh?”

“There’s a woman that he’s rather fond of, my uncle - our family - disapproved.  But now that he’s gone, there’s still political pressure on Gavin to marry someone else instead should he become Viscount...”  She pauses for a moment, brows drawing together.  “...Someone, well, someone human instead.  He won’t, and he shouldn’t have to.  He’s happy with her, and that’s all that should really matter.”

“Oh.”   _ Could she believe in marriage for love, too?  Could she be just as trapped in her noble blood as he was?  Could she be here simply at the behest of others just as he was?  Could she be someone who could love him for him? _

The more he thought about it, the more he felt shame fill him from how naive and petulant he was being, thinking he was the only one unhappy with his birthright.  How had he never seen that Liam Cousland had fled as far as he could when he had the opportunity to reclaim Highever or even Ferelden for that matter?  Liam had never wanted it, had never wanted to guide the Wardens back to their old glory, had run as far away as he could from his position as Commander of the Grey.  Maker, Alistair didn’t even know where he was, there had barely been a goodbye - only a letter with his seal, saying he was sorry for not helping his friend navigate the choppy waters of kingship.

At first, Alistair had been angry, his best friend had practically shoved him into the birthright he had never wanted.  Now?  Now he was beginning to understand just why he had done exactly as he did.  At least why he ran away.  But Alistair still wondered sometimes in the dark of night why Liam had backed Eamon’s bid to have Alistair on the Ferelden throne. If the young Cousland was running from his blood as well, surely he should have understood.   _ Surely he must have _ .

“Your highness?”

“Hmph?”

“You got awfully quiet there.” Her eyes cast downwards once more, avoiding his gaze.  “I’m sorry if that's all too much, I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this, you’re just so easy to -”

“Talk to?” He breathed out a laugh.  “I was just thinking the same thing.”

She smiled at that, peeking up at him through her dark eyelashes.  He liked it.  The curve of her lips around her teeth, the little dimple that showed on her left cheek as she did so.  “And how does a beautiful woman such as yourself not have a line of suitors in the Free Marches?”

Her hand tightened on his for barely a moment as her eyes widened, green and perfect.  “You think I’m beautiful?”

“Maker, surely you must know that you are.”

“I -” Her eyes were fixed against his chest again. “No.”

He let his hand leave her waist, raising it below her chin until she was looking back up at him once more.  “You are.”

She was off her feet and raised above him before he’d even realized he’d let go of her hand to join his other at her waist, a simple move of spinning her above him.   The weight of her was nice in his arms, the way her hands flew to his shoulders to brace herself something he enjoyed more than he cared to admit.  Her skirts billowed around them, a peal of laughter coming from the both of them as they settled into the movement.  The tips of her dark hair tickled against his face as he spun them once, twice, three - spun them more times than he kept count at the centre of the room.  He lowered her slowly, her slippered feet touching the floor once more, but their movements didn’t stop.  Nor did their mirth, Maker, if this was how the whole ball was to go... 

And then there was a cleared throat behind him to make him realize the music had stopped, had stopped long ago and he was still slowly spinning with her in his arms.  

“Alistair.  It’s time for the next dance.”  

Eamon voice was closer than he had thought, standing just behind his left shoulder as he and the Lady Amell finally came to a stop.  She made to pull away, but Alistair held her hand for a moment longer, leaning forward to whisper near her ear.  “May I call on you later for another dance, my Lady?”

He hoped Eamon wouldn’t mind a few more moments of delay.  He wanted to see her again. To talk to her again, maybe to ask about those Ferelden refugees and more.  More of her.

“I -”

“Only one dance per lady tonight, your majesty.” Eamon voice answered for her.  He bristled a bit at the words -  _ Maker’s breath, could he do nothing without being told he couldn’t anymore _ ?  He leaned further forward, words barely whispering past her ear and hopefully low enough that his adoptive uncle wouldn’t -  _ couldn’t _ \- hear.

“How about a walk through the gardens then? Tomorrow?”

He barely heard her gasp before she whispered back, catching that this needed to stay between them, at least just for now.  “Tomorrow? Am I to be staying until then, I thought you still had to decide later?”

There was the barest of smiles giving away their agreement, and he fought the urge to tell her that she was going to be the first one he named to stay, before he had even spent more than a brief moment with the other candidates. He could see Eamon throwing a fit already in his mind, telling him he had to choose his Queen because of what she could do for Ferelden, not because he thought she was pleasant to talk to.  That he needed to use his head, not his heart for once.

“I want-”

“Alistair!  You can’t keep the young ladies waiting all night.”  Eamon strode closer to them, nearly between them now.  Alistair couldn’t tell if he was pleased or not, his face more neutral than he’d ever seen - that was never good around him.  Maybe Eamon’s discussion with him about who he could and couldn’t choose would happen sooner rather than later.  “Come, King Alistair, there’s a young lady who I think you’ll like.”


End file.
